


A Punishment Well Deserved

by fruitypatootie1255



Category: Great Pretender (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Murder, brief mention of laurent thierry, father and son argument, makoto sorta goes crazy, seiji ozaki is a deadbeat dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:53:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27599867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruitypatootie1255/pseuds/fruitypatootie1255
Summary: Makoto is trying to work on building his future when a dark reminder of his past interrupts him. What does he do to fix that problem? He gets rid of it using force.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	A Punishment Well Deserved

**Author's Note:**

> Makoto deserves this, he's stressed.

It was a long day, one of the longest days Makoto had had in what seemed like forever since he had semi-officially left Team Confidence, which was about half a year prior. He got his fair share of a break. He hadn’t done anything boring that day, he actually enjoyed himself, but everything about the past few hours had seemed so unnecessarily slow, like a movie that spent way too much time on something mundane rather than the flashy, important parts of the plot. His entire day was spent taste testing different coffee beans, as he was still on his journey to look for the top few flavors he could use to make coffee in the cafe he wanted to open soon. He told himself he could do it, and that it was worth it if he could make other people happy with what he made.

When he finally stepped inside the building, a cozy hotel that he was staying at for the moment while he visited, he was engulfed in warmth. While yes, he was already bundled up in a thick winter coat, a wool scarf, a hat that covered his ears, and slightly warmer socks than usual, his hands, legs, and face were still freezing. They were so cold, in fact, that they were slightly redder than normal. Silently, he thanked whatever God that was out there for putting the thought of creating indoor heating into some person’s head. Without it, he surely would have been dead.

For a minute or so, he simply stood in the lobby of the hotel with his head tilted back, nose upturned as he stared blankly at the tall ceiling. He let out a long sigh of relief. Well, he thought, I need to get moving soon. If he didn’t hurry, he would start to overheat, and he didn’t want that. Nothing irritated him more than being too warm. Edamura began to walk to his room, but just as he lifted his foot to get going, he heard a voice.

“Hello!” the voice said, its tone ever so cheery as every outgoing and talkative stranger should be.

“Hello,” he replied politely, truly not in the mood to start a conversation. He had already started to get sweaty. Once again, he started to walk before stopping in his tracks and staring at the strange patterned floor beneath him as he thought and had his well-needed epiphany.

He recognized that voice. It was deeper than his own and obviously older, clearly male, and it had a native Japanese accent. Either he was Japanese, or had been speaking it for a while. Slowly, he turned his head to look at the man who had greeted him only moments prior, and was met with a man he knew all too well. A man he hated with his entire being and would continue to hate until the day he died. His distaste had been clear on his face.

“How are you?” the man asked, voice still cheery, as if he was oblivious to Makoto’s burning hatred toward him.

It was his father. His stupid, idiotic, lying, cheating, scheming, selfish father! He didn’t even want to refer to that man as his father, only by his name. That man was nothing but a stranger to him, and they were nothing alike. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked a little too harshly, but he would never apologize for that.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb, asshole! What are you doing here? There’s no job, no family for you to visit, so why are you here?” he snapped. 

Everything he said was true and not just lies spewed because he was moody and upset. They were in a prefecture in Japan that none of his family lived in. In fact, most of their family was in Tokyo! No, his family. Seiji Ozaki was not family.

“Is there something wrong with me visiting my son? Last time I checked, it wasn’t a crime. Oh, but steering clear of committing crimes was never a fear of mine, you know that.” God, he could practically feel the smugness in that jerk’s voice all over him.

Makoto felt his blood boil. His face was getting hotter than hot. He clenched his fists to stop himself from blowing smoke out of his ears and making a noise similar to that of a train whistle. “I am not your son,” he said slowly, emphasizing each and every word in an attempt to get the words through to that pitiful man. As Ozaki stepped forward, he let out a shaky breath and took a step back to keep enough space in between them. 

That smug man had one hand in his pocket casually, a calm smile on his face, and he seemed so relaxed. Idiot. Makoto was almost being reminded of someone he thought fondly of.

“Let’s talk outside, alright? We don’t need you yelling in front of everyone.”

Well, if talking outside gave him the opportunity to tell an unsuspecting stranger that this strange and scary man was harassing him, he was more than happy to step outside. So, he turned his heel, shoved his hands in his pockets to get his upset mood across, and started to walk right out the door he had walked through minutes prior, listening to the footsteps of the other man behind him. Once they were both outside and close to the corner of the building, he stopped, yet Ozaki continued walking, not even bothering to look back and see if the younger male was still following him. Clearly, he was a man with a plan. 

Might as well go with him, he thought. Edamura began to walk again, staring at the man in front of him’s back. While they travelled in silence, he looked down at the one hand that wasn’t in his pocket and realized his father was holding two bottles, tangling his fingers in such a way so that they didn’t fall. They were each shut and had pop off caps, so Makoto could only guess it was beer. That was the American dream, wasn’t it? Having a beer and catching up with your emotionally distant son? Seiji always wanted more of the American lifestyle than a Japanese one. What a bum.

Finally, after a few minutes of walking, they arrived at the destination, which was just the back of the building he had been residing in. He never even thought about what went on in the back. Why were they even there? Maybe Ozaki saw right through Makoto’s thoughts. Back there, most of the ground was covered in a thin sheet of snow that crunched when it was stepped on. The only place that had been cleared of any obstructions was a small path to the dumpsters. It was dim as well, the winter sun being blocked out by the buildings.

Ozaki turned around and held out one bottle for Makoto, which he hesitantly took and just cradled in his hands rather than opening it. The other man opened his own bottle and almost immediately took a sip, dropping the cap in his pocket. What was he thinking in that moment?

For a while, they sat in complete silence. They were both unsure if the other had things to say; if the father would try to explain himself or if the son was going to blow up from anger before even bothering to listen. 

Finally, someone spoke.

“Do you need help?”

“What?” Edamura asked distantly, completely caught off guard.

“Opening it, do you need help?”

He scrunched his nose as he felt something chip away inside his mind, growing more brittle and broken.

“No, I know how to open a bottle.” Even he cringed at himself, as he sounded just like an angsty teenager. He may as well get his teen years back, seeing as his father and she-who-shall-not-be-named had ripped it away from him.

The older man shrugged and took another sip, putting one hand back in his pocket smoothly once more. “So,” he sighed, “what are you doing here? Are you opening a business?”

Something else chipped away, and Makoto felt a nagging sensation forcing his eyes to look lower and lower until they were stuck staring at his hands rather than the person in front of him. Once they were there, his hands began to snake from the wider part of the bottle to the neck of it, leaving him holding it awkwardly as his fingers overlapped each other. His grip was too loose, he felt as if he were going to drop it, yet he felt like if he held on to it any tighter it would break.

He sighed. “No, I’m just visiting.”

“Visiting? Do you have a friend?”

“No.”

“Then who are you visiting? Like you said, there’s no family here.”

Another chip. His grip on the neck tightened as he suddenly forgot about his worries moments prior, and his gaze moved to the man in front of him.

“I don’t need to be visiting someone to visit a town. I’m here by myself, just here to be here.”

The man nodded, though judging by his gaze he didn’t seem too convinced by the answer he received. Why did he even want to know so bad? How would it benefit him? Was he trying to make up for years of being an absent father with a quick catch up session and a bottle of beer each? That was pitiful.

Multiple voices in his head began to speak over themselves, jumbling together as he tried to focus on one of them at a time and on his father at the same time.

“Are you keeping up with your friends abroad?”

“Huh-huh?” he asked, way too abruptly for it to seem normal. The voices spoke louder. His hands began to feel numb.

“Your friends, Team Confidence?”

Team Confidence. His friends. His friends that weren’t even supposed to be his friends.

Suddenly, the voices all agreed on one thing to say: do it! Makoto’s hand around the neck of the bottle began to twist around it nervously, then spasmed, tightening and loosening up, then tightening once more to ensure he didn’t drop it like a fool.

“Oh, no, I’ve been too busy.”

“Too busy visiting?”

Do it!

“Ye-yeah. . .”

“Have they reached out to you at all?”

The voices went back to talking over each other. 

Do it! He wants to talk about anyone but you!

He is obviously there just to take something from you!

He’s just using you!

“No, I think they’re too busy to.”

“Probably, they’ve all moved up with their lives, huh?”

The possibility of his friends moving on from him must have been the final straw, because the voices in his head were suddenly booming, sounding like someone put a megaphone right by his ear and yelled “do it!” at the top of their lungs. It caused his entire body to jerk, and before he knew it, he had been thoroughly coerced. Something else chipped and the walls broke down. The wheels in his head got rusty and stopped working, creaking and trying to continue rolling as he attempted to continue thinking rationally, but were stopped by some invisible force. 

His limbs felt numb and he couldn’t tell whether it was because of the low temperature or because his mind was simply playing tricks on him, though he could still see what they were doing clear as day, so he hoped it was the former. Something told him it was the latter, though. The hand that held the bottle had sprung up, and his other hand wrapped around it for more torque for when he needed it. Then, it swung right down on the top of his father’s head, Makoto letting out a grunt from all the force he had used, and Ozaki letting out a cry from the pain and surprise. Now, all that was left was the neck and some sharp glass that was not broken from the initial blow. That, and shards of glass hidden in the snow.

He watched in shock as his father stumbled back, a hand going to hold on to his hand instinctively as the pain had finally settled and the blood started to seep out of the wound, creating a dark trail down the side of his head and on his hands, as well as matting his hair. “What the hell are you doing, Makoto?”

Edamura mumbled something incoherent even to himself. Perhaps he was asking his father to repeat the question, as his words sounded so muffled in his ears that it was almost as if his head was under water. After a moment of listening to his father’s muffled yelling, he dropped the bottle and slowly stepped forward, before grabbing his father by his head. One hand was tangled in his hair and the other was practically digging his nails into the back of his head, before he turned him around forcefully, pushed himself forward with all of his might, and slammed his father into the wall. He heard a crack, and it created a pit in his stomach. He had to keep going, though. From just a glance, he could see more blood covering his father’s face, it almost seemed like something out of a movie. That was what he wanted - he wanted to see the blood of the man who ruined his life everywhere it shouldn’t be. On the ground, on his hands, he wanted him to be wrung dry of his sins. Seiji Ozaki needed to pay for what he had done. For good measure, he ricocheted his father’s head off the brick wall once more, then let go of him completely and let gravity do the work.

Immediately, his father became dead weight and dropped to the ground, groaning in pain as he tried to blink his vision clear and attempt to get up. He failed miserably, though. The snow had cushioned his second fall. Makoto dropped to his knees and hovered over the other man, forcing him on to his back so he could get a good look at the work he had done so far. Although there was a lot of blood and definitely some long-lasting damage, he wasn’t satisfied. He wanted him to be unrecognizable. He reached around blindly and grabbed the bottle he had dropped earlier, lifting it above his head and breathing heavily from the exertion of energy and the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Everything felt so good, he wanted to feel that way forever.

“Makoto!”

“Makoto, don’t do this!”

“Get off of me!”

He seemed scared. Between the look on his face and his shaky, uncertain voice, the unshakable man had been shaken.

Makoto hesitated. Clearly, his father noticed and took advantage of his lapse in judgement and took the limited amount of time he had to bring his arms up to his son’s in an attempt to disarm him. He weakly grabbed at the hand that held the bottle, but clearly Edamura would not just let that happen. He jerked his arm back and dropped the bottle back in the snow beside them both, then wrapped both of his hands around his father’s neck, pressing his thumbs against the spot in between his larynx and his trachea, cutting off as much air flow as he could. He could still hear the faint and shrill sound of breathing coming from the other man, so he leaned forward to apply some more of his body weight on to that one spot. That seemed to do the trick.

Slowly and painfully, his father had begun to go limp beneath him, head tilting back and eyes rolling back until all Makoto could see were the whites of his eyes.

Don’t let him pass out! He needs to be conscious while you punish him!

Edamura abruptly let go of his father’s neck and allowed him to gasp for air. The other man had attempted to say something, perhaps to yell at him some more, but all that came out were weak croaks. He stood on his knees and backed up until he was hovering over his thighs rather than his abdomen, then picked up the bottle and lifted his arms above his head once again. In one easy and fell swoop, he plunged the rigid end of the bottle into the older man’s stomach. He let out a satisfied sigh as blood began to seep through the suit that the other male was wearing, then on to Makoto’s hands as he pressed down on his victim’s stomach. It felt warm, which was such a stark contrast against the cold air surrounding them. 

The man beneath him took in another deep and shaky breath, reaching a hand up to grab the young adult by the arm. “M. . . ak- Makoto,” he started slowly, voice hardly understandable. He made a pitiful attempt of pushing Makoto off. He opened his mouth to speak again, to call the boy he called his son crazy, or a psychopath, or to tell him to get the hell away from him, but he couldn’t. Seiji Ozaki sounded so weak. Almost like his late wife. Though he could not compare to her in any way, shape, or form. She was far above him and even he knew that.

Edamura didn’t listen. He pushed against his father’s hands, silently struggling against him as he attempted to continue his attack. Why was he still fighting, even with a head injury, a stab wound, nearly entirely closed airways, and clearly no way out of that situation? After a full half a minute of struggling, he grabbed the neck of the bottle and yanked it out of Ozaki’s stomach, earning a grunt from them both, one from pain and one from effort. He began waving it around his father’s face erratically, which caused the other to let go of his arm and instead cover his face. It began getting difficult for Makoto to breathe as well, he needed to do something fast.

As he waved his weapon around, blood was forced off of the tips of the glass edges, plopping down on droplets on Seiji’s arms and bouncing off the snow that surrounded them. 

The man he used to call his father had backed off entirely once Makoto had a weapon. All that was heard for a few seconds was sputtering and struggled breathing.

“Th- Think about what you’re doing,” the man stammered. “You - you’re making a mistake,” he muttered, his voice so faint it was nothing but a whisper almost taken by the wind.

Makoto began to get deja vu.

Shut him up!

Beginning to obey the voices in his head quicker and quicker and without much second thought, he raised the bottle again and sunk it into his father’s abdomen once again. This caused the other man to let out a gargled breath, but he still struggled for his life. He grabbed at Makoto’s arms and wrists, begging him with his eyes to do something, to stop, to save him! He kept trying to say something, but no one was listening. No one! He would finally know what it felt like to be ignored! No one could hear the old man even if he cried his lungs out for help, so there was no point in even attempting it! 

Don’t save him!

Don’t worry, I would never save him.

“Mako-”

“Shut up!” he snapped, his voice coming from a space deep within his chest, sounding more like an animal’s growl than a human’s voice. Tears had begun to sting his eyes as frustration got the best of him. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” He pulled the bottle out of his father’s stomach and began to stab him over, over, and over again. Soon, his arms began to feel tired. If they didn’t get tired, he never would have stopped. He would have just kept going. His dream of his father’s body being unrecognizable would have to wait for a later time, and it was all because of his stupid arms getting too tired. Ridiculous. Damn his body!

As he took the time to catch his breath, his father’s body beneath him had gone completely limp. Slowly, he tilted his head back and stared at the dark sky, thinking back to a time where he and his father would look up at the stars fondly together. Now, his father stared up with blank eyes, and he stared with tired ones. It was silent between them, his own breathing the only thing Makoto could hear. 

After a moment of blissful star gazing, he looked down at his victim and admired his beautiful art work and hard work. Although there were tears and blood all over his father’s face and even more blood pooling beneath his body, Edamura was nowhere near done with his work. There was business he still needed to do. He was just taking a small break.

“Dad?” he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper as he said the unfamiliar name. “Are you awake?”

He leaned down and gently hit his father’s face, giving him a few good slaps. He was sure that would wake him up. He was already starting to get cold and blue. Was it the weather that caused that, or had he lost track of time while he was staring at the stars?

“You fell asleep.” Makoto sighed and set the bloody bottle down beside his father’s body, then slowly got off of his father, choosing to sit down beside him instead of straddling him. He pulled his legs to his chest and hugged them, then laid his head on his knees as he sighed. He needed to think about how to finish his art piece, and soon before his ass got completely soaked from the snow melting beneath him.

“What do you think I should do with him?” he asked the voices, eyes never leaving his father’s blank face.

Something with his face. Make him look like a clown!

Or dismember him!

No you idiot, he doesn’t have the time or equipment to do that!

Oh, you’re right. Go the clown route.

Makoto nodded slowly and thoughtfully. He rocked his body forward and moved so that he was sitting on his knees, then turned so that he was able to lean over his father’s head and get a good look at him. Yes, it was very similar to the look Edamura had, some thousand yard stare that showed absolutely no remorse or emotion at all behind it. With eyes that used to shine bright at the mere thought of his father, his idol, coming home to see his darling son, they stared duly at the man he used to think of as his very own superman. He remembered how he used to tell his mom about how much he missed him, his mom -

“You killed my mom,” he murmured, slowly getting to his feet. “You killed her!” Nothing would ever convince him otherwise. Not anyone or anything. As far as he was concerned, his father was as much of a cold-blooded murderer as he was in that moment. “You killed her and left me to fix everything! To pay off all of her medical bills! To grieve by myself!” His voice had gone from slightly shaky to loud and unstable. “I was just a kid!” He loved his mother so much, even if she frustrated him by being so forgiving considering his father had left them with so many problems. The fact that he could finally avenge her death filled him to the brim with joy. In fact, he was so overjoyed that the idea that she would have been disappointed at his approach had never crossed his mind. 

“You,” he lifted a foot, “killed,” he stomped it right down on to that monsters face, “my,” he lifted his foot off the man’s pale face and ground both of his feet into the snow, “mom!” As he yelled out the final word he jumped, clenched his fists, and landed both of his feet down on to the man’s head. He could feel something grinding and collapsing beneath him as he landed down, and he could hear the squelching of fluids, the sloshing of things he didn’t want to think about, and the cracking of bones. Well, it was definitely too late to go down the clown route now.

“You’ll never hurt anyone again!” Another stomp. He began to feel grateful that he wore such durable shoes. “No one’s mom,” another stomp, “no one’s children,” another stomp, “and certainly not me!” Stomp, stomp, stomp. “You hear me? Do you hear me? You’ll never hurt me again!” By then he was yelling at the top of his lungs, yelling from his diaphragm as a good friend might have said. Would he have been proud if he saw that situation?

They were unrecognizable, both of them. Ozaki was unrecognizable in the way that his face had caved in from the weight of Makoto crushing his skull over and over, and Makoto because he was nothing more than a broken shell of the man he used to be. Something inside of him had been released, some anger or primal instinct that all people had, but just didn’t act on. There, his art piece was finished. A pièce de résistance. How was that for French?

After a while of appreciating his work and thinking about the situation as a whole, things had finally begun to settle in his mind. The adrenaline had begun to wear off. He killed that man. No - he killed his father. His own flesh and blood. He deserved it. He deserved all of it. He definitely deserved to die, but murder was still a crime, and it was a crime he had just committed. Edamura stared down at his bloody hands in a way to ground himself to the world, one having a cut in it from a stray piece of glass, but it was no big deal. It was nothing compared to what he had done to the man before him.

He looked back at the now faceless man, a fog overwhelming his brain. He was going to be thrown in jail if he was caught. 

That’s why you aren’t going to get caught. 

“I might,” he whispered, clenching his hands into fists as he tried to steady his hands, calm his nerves, and stop the pulsating feeling from the cut on his palm. Fraud seemed like a very petty crime compared to murder, almost like shoplifting.

Without much thought into what he was doing, he pulled his phone out of his coat pocket and dialed up the first number he could think of, then held the phone up to his ear as he waited, listening to it ring. This was the only person he knew could help, if they decided to even help him at all. He would understand if he didn’t, he had broken the one rule that man had, afterall. Do not kill. Hell, Makoto understood if the man he went to for help never wanted to talk to him or be associated with him ever again! Because not only did he kill just anyone, he killed his own father, his own flesh and blood, without a second thought!

"Laurent?” he asked once he heard the familiar voice on the other end of the phone. “Laurent, I did something bad, I need your help,” he said quickly, feeling tears prick his eyes once again as he realized just how deep in trouble he was. His previously steady voice had become shaky, and his nose had gotten stuffy. Sure, he was satisfied for the moment about someone as bad as his father being dead, but his racing heart and the extensive thoughts about what would happen to him in jail was overwhelming him. Did he even know what happened to murderers in jail. . ? Especially murderers who were as weak and defenseless as he was, what did bigger and stronger men do to people like him? Oh shit, oh god!

No, no, he was going to be fine. Laurent was going to help him out, he was sure of it! It didn’t matter if he broke his huge and only rule or not, he was crucial to the cons, he was a needed part of the team! Team Confidence! If that was the case, he would do anything to keep him on board, right? Right?

Come on, Laurent! He needed help, he had to be helped!

Then, he finally spoke. “Sure, Edamame! What is it you need help with?”

Makoto let out a long breath that he had been holding, relief washing over him. Then he began explaining it all, starting from the very beginning.

“It was a long day.”


End file.
